


“cause i really always knew that my little crime would be cold that’s why i got a heater for your thighs”

by deepestfathoms



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Aragon is Bessie's mom but she pretends like she isn’t sorry I don't make the rules, Dissociation, Gen, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, This can be Banna if you want but it doesn’t have to be, write more about Bessie and her trauma you cowards!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 22:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepestfathoms/pseuds/deepestfathoms
Summary: Bessie’s panic attacks were different than other people’s. Mainly because if she wasn’t calmed down, she would “turn off”.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	“cause i really always knew that my little crime would be cold that’s why i got a heater for your thighs”

Pain. That’s all Bessie could focus on. She tried to just play her bass and continue with the show, but the intense ache in her stomach and rib cage was becoming too much to handle.

This wasn’t something Bessie was unfamiliar with. She was always achy in her past life thanks to Henry, and it only got worse after her fallout with Aragon, but she doesn’t like to think back on that day. All the the damage remained after reincarnation.

She just couldn’t get a break.

Images cycled over and over. And then over and over again.

Every scene at Technicolor levels of saturation. And she couldn't shut off the cinema reel. She was strapped in, unable to look away from the screen.

All the worst moments of her life played on repeat, melting into the next. Or they were cruelly punctuated with her happiest memories.

Bedtime stories with Aragon- the time before their fallout and the...beating. Warm hugs, soft kisses on her forehead, tender embraces, and gentle voices. All of it was a hidden comfort device she use at night, but it wasn’t night, so they were useless.

They would always be useless, as they would never happen again.

Next was Henry. His talons and teeth and tongue. His hands caressing her quivering thighs, forcing them apart when she squeezed her legs together, then him slapping her because she kept resisting him. He slapped her a lot, actually. 

He hurt her a lot.

Teeth clamping on her neck, nails carved trenches down her back, hands yanking her hair until it comes out in clumps but she’s still beautiful, you’re still so beautiful 

A few years later, her first son. Her stomach stretching to hold that abomination, the wooziness, the morning sickness, but the whispers were the worst thing. She became known as “the castle’s little whore”. The elder ladies in waiting and maids never really liked her, and now they had something they could use against her.

She had told Aragon she was raped by a man, which wasn’t exactly a lie. She couldn’t tell her who it actually was.

Labor and birth was worst thing. Seven hours of absolute agony and, oh god, she wished she would have just died because it was too much. 

Everything about that bloody baby. So much pain.

Her son didn’t live. She didn’t care. She screamed at the midwife to “get that horrid thing away from her”. She just wanted Aragon to hold her.

The worst part was being taken away during her second pregnancy another few years later. She missed Aragon. Aragon did not miss her when she found out about the affair.

These lucid thoughts stoked by the pain weren’t simply a series of visions lifted from her past. Every aspect of every memory came back to her, like she was reliving them.

She could taste blood and feel phantom fingers and hear croons and smell sweat. 

She felt  everything .

Her skin flamed as embers were shoveled into every muscle. It flares and the memories burn out, but the ache does not end.

By Heart of Stone, she’s trembling in exhaustion and pain. Every inhale raked through her chest like serrated claws, leaving deep gashes that continuously pulsed and throbbed with the beat of her heart. She didn’t know how much longer she could stay like this.

Apparently her pain was much more apparent than she thought, because Cleves sidled over to her and gently touched her shoulder. Upon contact, the blizzard raging before her eyes clears up and blinked blearily. She turned to the queen, furrowing her eyebrows and tilting her head a little.

“Are you okay?” Cleves asked softly.

Bessie went to answer, but her chest tightened and she had to close her eyes through the wave of pain. When she opens them again, Cleves looks worried.

“No?” Cleves answered for her. Bessie tried to say something, but, once again, couldn’t.

“No.” Cleves decided, “Come on.”

“I can’t,” Bessie whispered, finally finding her voice.

“We’ll get an alt. Come on.”

As subtly as possible, Cleves untangles Bessie’s bass and then guided her offstage. Many production members looked confused and tried to ask about what they were doing or get them back onstage, but Cleves ignored them and just asked for two alts to go on.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Cleves asked once in a dressing room. 

“I’m fine, really.” Bessie tried to tell her, but she was speaking through her teeth, “Just-“ A sharp noise of obvious pain worms out of her throat.

“Honey,” Cleves steadied her when she wobbled, “Honey, you’re not okay. Here, let me help you get the costume off.”

“Wait-“ Bessie couldn’t resist her when she began to unzip the back zipper, “Anna, please-“

“Shh,” Cleves hushed her, “Take it easy, Libbie. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Anna- Please- You don’t un-“

Cool air hit Bessie’s back and her spine arches. The costume gets tugged down to her waist before Cleves’ hands freeze.

“Oh, Bessie...”

Scratches. Down Bessie’s back. Rubbed raw from the cloth of her costume, illuminating them to hues of neon pink. Angry and glowing and looking painful from the fabric chafing them so viciously. 

Bessie is paralyzed. Her brain becomes muddled by unwanted thoughts as the trauma she always stamped down starts to bubble to the surface.

“Bessie? Bessie, can you hear me? You’re having a panic attack, darling, but it’s okay. You’re going to be just fine.”

That was a lie. Bessie could never be ‘fine’ ever again. She was broken beyond repair.

“I’m going to get you out of this costume, alright? It might make you a little more comfortable. Just relax and breathe for me.”

Bessie is too scared to disobey, so she tries, she really tries, but her chest is constricted into tight knots and trying to breathe only makes the coil worse. She coughed and her whole body shudders and suddenly the person touching her is not Cleves.

“Stop...please stop...” She begged weakly.

Suddenly, Cleves is in front of her and Bessie knows she’s ogling her exposed breasts. Of course she is. Why did she ever think her queen would be different? Anna was just like everyone else.

A hand is extended and Bessie squeezed her eyes shut, prepared to be groped and pinched and rubbed...

But none of that happens.

No, the hand gently wipes away tears she didn’t even realize where falling down her cheeks.

“Hey, Libbie, can you hear me? It’s Anna. It’s just me, I promise.” 

Bessie whimpered and shook her head, more tears spilling out of her glassy eyes.

“Lib-“

“No,” Bessie rasps out, “No, no, please...please no...”

She blinks and that was like the flip of a switch. When her eyes open again, they’re marbled and don’t look real anymore. Her mind melts and her brain and body start to go on autopilot.

“Libbie?” Cleves steadies the younger woman when she starts to sway, “Bessie?” She tried using the regular nickname. Then, softly, “Lizzie...?”

Bessie blinks again 

“What do you want me to do?” 

That question sent shivers down Cleves’ spine. It was spoken in such a drained, hollow voice that it didn’t even sound like her dear friend. She didn’t know what Bessie meant at first, but when she did realize, her stomach twisted and her eyes go wide.

“Bessie, no, no. I’m not going to...- I’m not going to hurt you like that. I’m not going to hurt you at all. I’m trying to help you.”

“That’s what Henry said,” Bessie mumbled, lolling her head slightly. Cleves had to shake her a little to keep her awake, but it was futile. The bassist was already too far gone to return to complete consciousness.

“He...”

Bessie’s tongue felt swollen. It was hard to speak and saliva was frothing around her lips, but she had just enough self-control to not drool all over herself. 

“He...”

She thinks she blacks out for a few seconds, because, suddenly, she’s on the floor. She doesn’t recall hitting the tile, nor does she feel the ache thrumming through her body upon impact or the chill against her skin. She just feels...numb.

It’s nice.

Cleves darts to the bassist’s side and props her up out of her sprawled position. She leans the girl against her, with Bessie’s head resting sluggishly on her shoulder, and all she could really do is hold her. Bessie is completely unresponsive at this point, so it’s not like talking will do anything. Cleves doesn’t even think she can hear her.

They stay like that for forty minutes until Cleves hears the usual commotion caused by the show ending. Bessie has still yet to wake up or snap out of whatever she was caught in, so Cleves gently extracts her from her embrace and went to her help.

“Something’s wrong with Bessie.”

Those four words would make anyone worried, but it brought the most concern to Aragon, who didn’t wait around for further explanation. She muscled past Cleves and checked the lady in waiting dressing room, sure enough finding who she was looking for.

And her heart broke when she saw her.

Bessie is huddled on the ground, eyes glazed over so heavily she almost looked blind- open but unseeing. What’s worse- Bessie’s costume was pulled down to her waist, exposing her breasts to the cold air and anyone’s gaze. When the others entered the room, Aragon practically hissed Anne, who she thought was ogling Bessie’s bosom (which she wasn’t, but Aragon could never be too sure). 

Aragon’s heart constricted as she approached slowly, feeling so deeply for this girl who has unjustly been through so much. She kneels on the ground, noticing a sheen of sweat over Bessie’s skin, and then that she was shivering at the same time.

“Someone get a blanket,” She orders in her old queen voice- something she rarely ever used unless the situation was dire. “Damnit, Anna, she is shivering and shirtless! How could you leave her like this?”

Anna winced a little at the tone lacing Aragon’s words. She didn’t know how to respond, as not even she knew, so she decided to be the one to grab the blanket.

“Also get a wet rag and turn off the lights.” Aragon added, never taking her eyes off of Bessie. The bassist still seemed oblivious to her presence.

After the lights were turned off and a lamp was turned on instead, the slightest moment came from Bessie. Her pupils shrunk a little, but that was it. Aragon frowned and gently brushed a mop of hair out of her face.

“Get out of the room.” Aragon said after she was given the rest of what she asked for. “Now.”

Nobody decided to test her queen voice, so they all obeyed. Once the door shut, she softened her eyes.

“Elizabeth?” Aragon called out softly, “Elizabeth, it’s Catherine. Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Then, a tiny whimper.

Something about the queen’s voice seemed to get through to Bessie, but not in the way Aragon had been hoping.

At first, Bessie is crying silently, probably not even aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks, but then strangled noises bubble forth and her muted crying turned into more of an agonized death-rattle. She’s gasping and wheezing, panicking out of control. Her pain is so clear; Bessie is hurting herself. Maybe not on purpose, but she’s only furthering her own suffering.

“Elizabeth,” Aragon tried gently, keeping her voice low and soft, “Let’s try something different, okay? Can you tell me where you are?”

Her Lady shuddered violently. Her head is now bowed closed to her tucked-in knees, hands pulling at her hair.

“Bedroom...” She whispered so quietly Aragon almost missed it.

“A bedroom? That’s where you are?” Aragon asked.

It took thirty seconds for Bessie to nod.

“Alright. Where? Do you think you can be more specific for me? It’s okay if you can’t. Don’t push yourself.”

“Castle...” Was Bessie’s quiet answer. 

“The castle?”

Oh.

Bessie hiccups.

“Okay, Elizabeth, I need you to listen to me, alright? You’re not there. You’re not at the castle anymore. You’re in the theater. You’re sage.”

Bessie looked up a little, but snapped her head back down when she made eye contact.

“You’re in your dressing room. On the floor. It’s,” Aragon checks the clock on the wall, “five forty-seven.”

Bessie makes a soft noise.

“Everything is okay, darling. I promise. Just breathe, okay? Breathe.”

Nothing happened for a moment. Aragon bit the inside of her lip, her hands fluttering over the bassist’s back, desperate to hold her.

“Elizabeth?”

Bessie whimpers and mumbles something incoherent. Something about Henry.

“Elizabeth?” Aragon tried again, a bit louder this time, “I’m right here. It’s Catherine, remember? It’s Catalina.”

Still nothing and Aragon began to worry again. They were doing so good, too.

Surprisingly, she didn’t feel any hints of agitation. She didn’t know where this patience came from, but if it wasn’t Bessie she was talking to (maybe Parr, too) she might have made a frustrated retort by now. But she didn’t.

She took a deep breath and tried again:

“Alright, Elizabeth, can you try to breathe with me? It might be easier if you don’t do it alone.”

This time, Bessie actually offered an answer.

“I-I can’t...”

Aragon furrowed her eyebrows. She manages to rest her hand on top of Bessie’s, which is good progress.

“Yes, you can.” She said gently. “I know you can, sweetheart.”

Bessie shook her head where it’s still burrowed in her knees.

“It hurts,” She whispered.

“Where does it hurt, sweetie?” Aragon asked. 

“Everywhere.” 

Chills raced through Aragon’s body because Bessie looked up at her when she said that. Her eyes were so hollow and lifeless- it was unbelievably startling to see her like this.

“Hurts...everywhere.” 

Bessie’s head buries back into her knees.

“He’s- oh god- he’s- he’s-“ She’s choking hard on her words, “Hurts. Oh god, Catalina, it hurts!”

A scream suddenly rips out of her throat and she whipped her head backwards, cracking it against the wall. Bessie’s legs kick out, like she’s trying to ward off an invisible foe, but then her thighs press together tightly and Aragon realizes just what the girl was going through.

Bessie sobbed for a long time, eyes screwed shut and squirming where she was sitting. It was painful for Aragon to watch, as she knew the bassist was too deep in her dissociative episode to be pulled out. All she could really do was try to make her comfortable until she eventually blacked out.

Ten minutes pass with Bessie crying in pain and Aragon lending her presence. The bassist seems to be getting weaker and weaker as the seconds pass by and Aragon knows it won’t be long, now.

“Elizabeth?” 

Bessie’s glassy eyes glance over at Aragon. She shies away when the queen reaches to her, but presses into the hand that cups one of her tear-stained cheeks. She’s in too much pain and was way too exhausted to remember that she was supposed to hate the Spanish woman.

“Catty...?”

The old nickname slipped from her lips. She isn’t looking at the woman anymore, rather up at the ceiling with dead-fish eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, honey.” Aragon said. That makes Bessie laugh, but it turns into a cough.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Catty. It’s not okay. None of this is okay.” Bessie closed her eyes and then tottered over. Catherine hurries to catch her and the bassist curled against her, burying her face into the queen’s chest. “I died, you know? Not childbirth like history says. No, no...” She laughed weakly, “I died when I was 13. When Henry first raped me. He raped me, you know? A lot. It hurt. I still feel it. I still feel him. He’s still inside of me.” 

Aragon is frozen. Her arms are right around Bessie, but it’s all she can do in her state of shock.

“I died,” Bessie whispered again, “This,” She gestured to herself before her arm goes limp, “This isn’t me. I haven’t been me in five hundred years. Not since he first got me. I died. He killed me. Or maybe I killed myself...I can’t remember.”

She nuzzled closer and Aragon can feel a ghost of a smile against her chest.

“You know what I do remember, though?”

Aragon says nothing.

“Before he was inside of me, I was inside of myself.”

A long pause.

“They say things scream when they’re being killed.” Bessie’s consciousness wavers. Her panting becomes shallower and she clings to any remaining energy she may have left.

“Well....this life is not going quietly.”

However, in that moment, it was silent as Bessie goes completely limp and Aragon is left completely stunned.

For a long moment, the queen does not move. Shock has worn off by then, she was just worried she would wake up Bessie. 

What the hell?

That was the thought running through her mind. She could not believe what she had just heard. Yes, she knew Bessie had baggage of her own, but...dear lord. This girl in her arms was suffering. Suffering a lot more than she had initially intended. 

Just how long has Bessie Blount been living like this? 


End file.
